


The U.N.C.L.E. Hulk Affair

by MariaPriest



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-15 00:52:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14780541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MariaPriest/pseuds/MariaPriest
Summary: The partners must effect an escape from a torture session.





	The U.N.C.L.E. Hulk Affair

The mission was exhausting but successful, so Waverly granted Solo and Kuryakin an extra night in Kansas City.

They forced themselves to do the obligatory security check. They found nothing, so fully clothed, they flopped into the beds and were instantly asleep. Neither heard the hiss of a gas being pumped into the room thirty minutes later.

oOo

A brief lull in the interminable beating and torture yielded yet another minutely altered version of the same query already asked numerous times by the gorgeous THRUSH agent. "We know you know Waverly's secret entrance to the New York headquarters, Kuryakin," she cooed seductively. "Our people have seen the two of you blocks away without being seen entering or leaving the known entry points. Tell me where it is, Kuryakin, and I'll stop this." She stroked his swollen cheek with a perfectly manicured, blood-red fingernail and slowly worked it down his bruised and bloodied bare chest.

Illya shuddered involuntarily. His skin was hypersensitive and the fingernail triggered what the Americans called "goose bumps." He stared back at her with the only functioning eye he had at the moment. The look was one of even greater defiance than before. He said nothing.

In frustration, she raked the exposed skin of his upper abdomen with the underside of the fingernail, which had a razor attached to it. She smiled with a great deal of satisfaction at his deep, throaty whine. "You're a stubborn fool, Kuryakin."

Illya panted through the new pain, which finally settled down to a feverish throbbing, matching all the rest of the pain sources. Then her minions started back with the electrical tricks again. He didn't even try holding back his screams this time.

An untouched Napoleon Solo, tied to a ladder chair in the same manner as his friend and partner, had a clear view of everything. This wasn't the first time he'd witnessed his partner's torture, but it never got any easier to endure. In fact, it got worse. Near-rage and the thirst for revenge grew in his belly. He bit down on his lower lip in an attempt to stifle the threats and expletives he wanted to shout at them.

Illya's head finally drooped, unconsciousness from too many minutes of electrical stimulation. Napoleon heaved silent thanks that his suffering was on hold for at least a while.

Their chief captor stood with hands on her hips, staring at the agent and thinking. After a minute, she said to no one in particular, "Get the ammonia capsules. Maybe when he sees Solo getting the same treatment, he'll find his tongue." She walked the few steps to Napoleon. "Time for you to come out to play, Solo," she purred as she shredded his shirt - and on occasion, his skin - with her altered fingernail. He couldn't contain a few hisses of pain. With a few well-placed swipes, the strips fell to his lap, leaving him only with sleeves and the back of the shirt.

Napoleon smiled. If she only knew how much Illya was like his favorite comic book character, Hulk. The Russian was a somewhat socially awkward, emotionally reserved physicist who needed solitude as much as he needed air until someone or something got his ire up. He didn't need to transform into a larger-than-life creature to be formidable. And he certainly wouldn't talk. "You know, torturing me will get you nowhere with Mr. Kuryakin. You'll just make him angry. You won't like him when he's angry."

She laughed. "I don't like him at all!"

Illya jerked back to consciousness, retching at the stink of the ammonia. It took a moment for his good eye to focus and when it did, he saw his tormentors gathered around Napoleon. He shot the woman a look filled with contempt and the promise of violence.

"See? What did I tell you?" said Napoleon.

She harrumphed. "Kuryakin, tell me now and save your precious chief agent the misery already visited upon you." When Illya did not respond, she nodded. The beating and torture began with an eagerness that concerned Solo.

With their captors' full attention on Napoleon, Illya, even with the help of blood-slickened wrists, took 30 minutes to work his hands free of the coarse rope binding them. He'd seen Napoleon abused before but this was different. They were using his partner against him. Outrage grew exponentially with each passing minute.

Solo didn't have to work not to give away his stealthy partner. One eye was nearly swollen shut and the jolts from the cattle prod made his other eye close reflexively.

Illya crept up behind the two henchmen and viciously chopped them simultaneously on the back of the neck. One went down immediately, but the other one Solo had to help to the floor with a kick in the groin. Meanwhile, Illya, tiring despite the burst of adrenaline, made a two-handed fist and bashed the woman's head at the temple. A cold, close-lipped smile built on his face. He dropped to his knees and slumped.

Napoleon knew his partner had run out of gas. "Illya? Untie me now," he commanded. "We need to - _duck_!"

A huge man they hadn't seen before charged into the room swinging a bullwhip. He was too fast for an Illya slowed by pain and exhaustion. As the whip snaked around Illya's neck, the barbed tip sliced into Napoleon's chest several times. 

Instinctively, Illya's hands went to his throat. Napoleon watched his face quickly turned a deep red. The big guy started pulling Illya toward him. "Grab it!" Solo shouted as he wrestled to release himself.

Illya snapped out of his growing lethargy to latch onto the whip with both bloody hands. He yanked as hard as he could, then collapsed.

The whip-wielder practically flew over Kuryakin and his comrades, only to be stopped by a head butt from Solo. He was out for the count.

Solo, dazed, looked at Illya. His face was now purple. The sounds that struggled from his mouth were harsh and raspy. " _Illya_! Unwrap it! _NOW_!"

Solo's command was enough to kick his survival instinct into high gear. So slowly, because he could go no faster as the color of midnight closed in on his vision, he began unwinding the whip.

"That's it, _tovarishch_ , you're almost there, Keep at it. That's it. Come on," Napoleon coaxed.

Finally, his airway was freed and air wheezed into his starved lungs. Once the unwelcome darkness retreated a bit, he got to his hands and knees and crawled over the bodies around Napoleon's feet. On the way he confiscated a switchblade that had been used on both of them.

Carefully he cut the rope around his friend's wrists, not trusting his ability to be precise. Which he wasn't; after slicing through the last strands of the rope, he cut Napoleon's forearm. "Sorry," he whisper-wheezed before collapsing again.

Solo's arms were numb so he didn't know what Illya was apologizing for until he brought them forward. Fortunately, the wound was superficial. As soon as his hands were functional, he retrieved Illya's medallion from the woman's decolletage. A trophy, she'd called it.

Next stop was Illya. Napoleon slapped him just hard enough to rouse him. "Illya, you have to help me get you on your feet. I can't do it by myself." The pain was so great he wasn't sure he would remain standing long himself.

Obedient, Illya staggered to his feet. "Hurt."

"I know. We both hurt. But time for us to go, get patched up. Okay?"

Illya blinked his agreement.

"Got something for you." He pressed the medallion into Illya's left hand, eliciting a sigh of relief from his friend. "Let's put it in your pocket." It took both of them to achieve this.

"Let's go." Arms wrapped around each other's waists, they started for the exit.

But Illya stopped them when he saw the deep indentation his blow had done to the woman's head. "I did." It was half-question, half-statement. He turned a pale shade of green; his body quivered, radiating to Solo.

Napoleon nodded, amazed at the strength a human could exhibit when pressed. "Yes, you did. And you saved us. U.N.C.L.E.'s own Hulk." He hoped that little bit of levity would help but on seeing the cold, hard, expressionless mask that was now Illya's face, he knew his friend had crawled into his schizophrenic soul to justify what he'd done so he could live with himself and keep going. With each passing year in their partnership, Illya was coming back to the human the KGB had worked so hard to suppress. It was tough on both of them.

"Go." The tone was completely without affect.

Sometimes Napoleon hated that he was right. "Yeah, let's."

the end  
© 2018

**Author's Note:**

> "Schizophrenic" used here means related to conflicting of inconsistent elements or something characterized by unusual disparity.  
> Thanks to CoriKay for the making this story better.  
> Response to a Section VII challenge with prompts of purple and whip.


End file.
